


Never Judge Books By Their...?

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is old-fashioned, Crowley can't catch a break, F/F, Flirting, Innuendo, M/M, Misunderstandings, No angst here, POV Outsider, Police interviews, because we love shenaningans, nosey humans eavesdropping on the ineffable husbands, shenaningans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 16:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: There's a burglary in Soho, right across the road from AZ Fell & Co's Antique Bookseller's. An angel and a demon are called in for questioning, and the detectives involved start to form opinions...(OR: Crowley's a flirt, and Aziraphale doesn't do PDA; people start to get the wrong idea)





	Never Judge Books By Their...?

Detective Inspector Carlton was a busy woman. London seethed with crime, after all, and after a while it started to get you down. She was cynical. Her partner, Detective Sergeant Wilson, wasn't much different, but at least he had more fun with it. His sarcastic remarks brightened her mornings in a way that three shots of espresso never could. 

There had been a break-in around the corner from the office and, needless to say, this would be embarrassing if they couldn't get to the bottom of it quickly. Carlton quickly flicked through every piece of evidence they had so far, her stuffy office piled high with unfinished work. There was a rap at the door in a cheery tune.

"The witnesses are here," Wilson said, leaning on the doorframe. His youthful face held a lopsided smirk. "They're an interesting bunch, this time round."

Carlton sighed. "That's never good," she huffed. "Who are we getting first?" 

"Bookshop owner, goes by Mr AZ Fell," he said, sauntering down the corridor with her. "He's in the interviewing room already."

The interviewing room was a kind name for it. The phrase 'interrogation room' had been banned by HR, claiming it was 'ominous' and 'threatening to vulnerable civilians'. It was a featureless grey room, its tables and chairs bolted to the floor in the cramped space. There was one pane of mirrored glass on the wall, for observations. The overhead light still ran on a filament bulb, and buzzed like a wasp in a jar. Carlton liked that bulb. It drove their suspects insane, especially if you left them to stew in the noise for a few hours. 

The man sat at the table was round-faced and friendly. He smiled at them with genuine kindness, and greeted them with warmth as they shook his hand and introduced themselves. She felt vaguely surprised. Men like this were uncommon in such a large city.

"So, Mr Fell," Wilson said, taking the lead. "What can you tell us about Friday night?"

"Oh, well, let me think..." he said airily, visibly concentrating to dig out his memories. "I was in my shop - I sell rare and antique books, you see - when all the kerfuffle started."

"What time was that?" Carlton asked, making shorthand notes in her writing pad.

"Just a smidge after nine o'clock, I believe," he said. He looked down at her hands, a flash of colour catching his eye. "I say, what lovely nail polish."

She tensed up immediately. "Thank you, Mr Fell, but - " she began, about to rebuke him, hoping she wouldn't have to explain that she was happily married, thank-you-very-much; he quickly interrupted, as if he hadn't heard her.

"Could I trouble you to tell me what shade it is?" he asked, tapping his index finger thoughtfully against his lips. "Valentine's Day is coming up, you see, and my husband would simply adore it, I'm sure."

She blinked. Wilson let out a breathy snicker, which he quickly disguised behind a cough. She glared at him, then looked back to Mr Fell. "It's called Rouge Noire," she said, readjusting her position slightly. Relieved that he hadn't been flirting with her after all, she began to let her guard down slightly. It was rather sweet, after all, that he was thinking of his husband. "Now, if you don't mind, Mr Fell, the break-in..."

"Yes, yes, of course," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "As I was saying, I heard that terrible ruckus outside, so I went out to investigate."

"Alone?" Wilson asked, fiddling with his pen rather than writing anything down. Carlton had learnt a long time ago that if she wanted something on paper, she'd have to do it herself. 

"Yes, my husband was upstairs at the time," he said. 

"And what did you see?" Carlton asked, making a note. She looked again at the red nail polish she was wearing, secretly quite pleased that someone had noticed. Her wife hadn't been awake to see it this morning, and she now had high hopes that when she got home, she'd like it, too. 

"There were two gentlemen, I believe," he said, frowning as he dredged his memory. His level of concentration was somewhat endearing. "One quite tall, rather muscular, with short hair. He had a sort of mask or bandana over his face, I think. The other was much the same, but with longer hair."

"Were they doing anything in particular?" Wilson pressed, feeling that Mr Fell seemed familiar to him somehow, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Fell's white, fluffy hair stuck up in loose curls, and his bright blue eyes seemed docile, but sharp and perceptive, alive with intelligence. Wilson suddenly realised who he reminded him of: his grandpa. They looked very different, it was true, but they both had a spark in their eye that came only with a fine age and a good life. Wilson had been very close to his grandfather, and missed him dearly. 

"Yes, the long-haired gentlemen had just climbed out of a broken window," he said. "I called out to them, but they turned tail and fled when they saw me. Cowards."

Carlton couldn't help the snort of laughter that escaped her. The idea that this adorable, harmless-looking man might consider a pair of criminals 'cowards'... Well, in all honesty, she felt the urge to believe him. Mr Fell gave her a mischievous sidelong look, and Wilson gawked. Carlton never broke her stoic mask, especially not in the interview room. This was a first. 

"Sorry," she said, shaking her head to clear it. She didn't often get the chance to interview genuinely nice people in her line of work; it was even less often that she got the chance to speak to another happily married gay person, man or woman. She felt oddly relaxed, speaking to him. "Is that all you can tell us, Mr Fell?"

"As far as I recall, dear, yes," he said. Wilson felt a pang in his heart. His grandfather used to call everyone 'dear', too... It was a bittersweet sensation, meeting someone so much like how he used to be. He felt as if he could talk to Mr Fell for hours, just to feel close to his grandfather again. 

They let Mr Fell out of the room, directing him to the break room. He lit up when they told him he could help himself to tea and biscuits, but reminded him not to leave until the other interviews were finished. While he disappeared down the hall, they took a moment to linger by the door.

"I've never seen you so laid back during an interview," Wilson commented, crossing his arms with a smile.

She rolled her eyes, her lips tugging upward slightly. "I've never seen you so quiet. He had an odd effect on us both," she said. Privately, she knew why. She had met Wilson's grandfather a few times, and she wasn't blind to the similarities, either. "He was a very nice man."

"Maybe we should visit his book shop next time we're in Soho on our lunch break," he suggested. 

"Only after we've closed this case," she said, picking up her professionalism again. "Come on, we have at least three more interviews to do."

They found their next man in the waiting room, lounging across two chairs, his lanky limbs draped over the armrests obnoxiously. The other two witnesses were confined to the rickety old chairs in the corner, squished in behind the water cooler. Wilson and Carlton shared a glance. 

"Excuse me, sir, if you could follow us," Wilson spoke up. The man lifted his head, revealing the pair of round blackout sunglasses on his face. Wilson suppressed an eye-roll; sunglasses indoors, really?

With a melodramatic sigh, he dragged himself off his perch, rolling his shoulders. "This better not take long," he said, slouching into a terrible posture. "I have plans for this evening."

Carlton gritted her teeth. "We shall try to keep this brief, sir," she said, venemously polite, gesturing for him to go on ahead. She really would try to keep it brief; she sensed that she wouldn't want to be in a room with this man for very long in any situation. 

He draped himself over the metal chair in the interview room, glancing around with a bored look on his face. He didn't make any move to take off his sunglasses, despite the relative dimness of the room. 

"You are... Mr Anthony J Crowley, correct?" Carlton said, settling in her chair.

"Yep," he replied, popping the P.

"What can you tell us about the night of the break-in?" she asked, clasping her hands on the desk.

"There was a break-in," he said dryly. 

She set her jaw. Wilson took the cue to pick up the conversation before she lost her temper. "Did you see it?" he said semi-patiently.

"Yes."

There was a pause. The two detectives shared an annoyed glance. "Could you provide us with any details on that, Mr Crowley?" he said testily.

"Of course, why didn't you say so?" he said, giving them a broad, teasing grin. Carlton intensified her glare until she was seriously pushing the boundaries of professionalism. "It was something like - er - nine, I think. Big crash, lots of swearing, that sort of thing."

Carlton gathered the frayed ends of her patience together, wondering if she could technically arrest someone just for being a dick. "Where were you at this time, Mr Crowley?"

He hummed. He tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling, making a show of thinking very hard, though it was very clear he couldn't be less interested. "In my room," he said eventually, his head lolling to the side as he stared at her through his glasses. "Heard it out the window."

Wilson gripped his pen tightly in his fist. "Did you go and look?"

"Nah," he said, scratching his neck idly. "I just rolled over and went back to sleep. Figured it'd sort itself out."

He was exactly the kind of man which made Carlton a cynic. Disinterested, arrogant, unpleasant... Wilson was inclined to agree, for as much he tried to find the funny side in things. This guy didn't exactly inspire laughter. He was like the human incarnation of a pound coin glued to the pavement, or bad mobile phone service. 

"Listen, can I go?" he said, checking his watch. "I've got nothing more to say."

Wilson looked to Carlton, who huffed. "Yeah, you're free to leave the room," she said. "But don't leave the building until we say so. We may need to call you back if we find any discrepancies between witness statements."

He waved his hand dismissively, swinging himself out of his chair and to his feet. "Yeah, whatever," he said, letting himself out.

They glared at he disappeared around the doorframe. "God, what an asshole," Wilson complained.

"Yeah, well... figures," Carlton said, re-reading her noted, making a few clarifications on the paper. "We get to interview an absolute saint of a man first, then we get landed with this big swaggering idiot."

"Yeah, I hear you," he said, getting up. "Cosmic balance, right?"

"Right."

The next two interviews were average. No more Mr Fells, no more Crowleys. Their testimonies matched the other two: loud noises, two men, hurried escape. They stayed in the office for a while, debating the details and filing the statements, before starting to bring it all to a close. They'd need to make a start on compiling forensic evidence soon. Then came the team meetings, then more filing, chasing down leads, more meetings, more paperwork... Carlton hated bureaucracy. Wilson was more diplomatic, and in truth, she might have been fired for her sharp tongue before now if not for him. After a while, they decided to head down to the break room and release the witnesses. 

They found the last two most easily, and they were happy to go. Then, Wilson poked Carlton's arm. "Hey, look," he hissed, pointing toward the coffee machine. Crowley was lurking over there, draped over the counter, talking to Aziraphale. "That bastard's trying to chat up Mr Fell."

"Sleazebag," Carlton snarled, curling her lip. "Can't he see the ring on his finger?"

"Probably. He's got one on himself," he said, gesturing at Crowley's left hand. They both flared up angrily. Great. He wasn't just your run-of-the-mill dickhead; he was also cheating on his spouse. Or trying to, at least. He didn't seem to be getting very far. Carlton made a move to approach them, but Wilson caught her arm, tugging her out of view behind a potted plant. 

"What are you doing?" she said. Wilson shushed her.

"Hey! I wanna see him get rejected, okay?" he whispered. "Might knock him down a peg, who knows?"

Carlton rolled her eyes. "You're terrible, and this is unprofessional," she said, but stayed put and joined in on the eavesdropping. 

Crowley slouched nonchalantly against a table, leaning close to Aziraphale. The angel, still hung up on the PDA taboos from 200 years ago, edged away slightly, a light pink colour in his cheeks. To an onlooker, he may have looked very uncomfortable. It certainly seemed that way to Carlton and Wilson, as they peered through the foliage of the tall potted plant.

"C'mon, angel, let me take you home," Crowley drawled, a devilish smirk on his lips. Carlton resisted the urge to storm out and break his nose just for that. "My car's right outside."

Aziraphale wrapped both hands around his paper cup. "I don't belive we're allowed to leave yet, dear," he said, a note of sternness shining through. 

"But what about after?" he said, drawing in even closer as Aziraphale's posture stiffened. He looked pained; he was, but not for the reasons Wilson and Carlton were thinking of. He wasn't being harassed by a sleazy stranger. He was being tempted by his demonic husband.

"What about it?" he said sharply. Wilson silently cheered him on, hoping he might eventually get irritated enough to slap him. He wondered if he should record them on his phone, just in case.

"I could have a table ready at the Ritz for tonight, if you just say the word," he said. Carlton bristled. Of course Crowley was wealthy, too; he was too full of himself to be anything else. She should have seen it sooner, with all his clothes and conspicuous designer labels. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better view through the leaves, earning her an amused glance from Wilson. 

"I could do just the same on my own, thank you very much," he sniffed. Carlton grinned, feeling oddly proud of Mr Fell. "Now, could we please talk about something else, besides your desperate attempts to woo me?"

Wilson's jaw dropped, and simultaneously stretched into a grin. He looked at Carlton. She was biting her fist to stifle her laughter, in awe of Mr Fell's brutal shutdown. She was tempted to step out of hiding and shake his hand, but she didn't want to embarrass him.

Crowley gave a melodramatic sigh. "Oh, cut me some slack. You can hardly blame me," he said. Wilson rolled his eyes at the classic, terrible excuse. "You look very fetching in that jacket..."

He reached out to toy with Aziraphale's bow tie, rubbing the tartan material between his thumb and forefinger. The angel slapped his hand away. "Now you stop that," he chided. "We're in public."

"Doesn't bother me," he said, grinning wolfishly, dropping his hand back down by his side.

"I noticed," he said curtly, giving him a hard, disapproving look. 

Deciding enough was enough, Carlton stepped out from behind the plant. She approached them both with a single-minded confidence, as if she hadn't been eavesdropping on their conversation. She was followed by a vaguely surprised Wilson, who had been enjoying the show up until that point. He'd complain about her being a spoilsport for days after this, no doubt.

They took notice of her fairly quickly. "Ah! Detective inspector," Mr Fell said, beaming despite having been 'harassed' for god knows how long (6000 years). 

"Hello, Mr Fell," she said. She gave Crowley a curt nod, which he returned with a sour expression. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Oh, not a problem, my dear," he said, waving his hand. Crowley huffed, muttering something under his breath, earning him a sharp glance from the man in white. "I do hope this all gets sorted out..."

Wilson puffed out his chest, putting on his best heroic policeman voice. "We've got our best people on it, sir," he said. "You can sleep safely, don't worry."

Crowley curled his lip into a wry smile. Fell gave him a smile, with a twinkle in his eye as if he had just heard a toddler announce they were going to slay a dragon. "I shall keep that in mind, dear boy, thank you," he said. "I do hate to ask, but are we free to leave yet? I'm terribly concerned that my shop has been closed for so long today."

"Oh, yes, of course," Carlton said, stepping aside to gesture them through. "Have a good day, gentlemen."

Mr Fell thanked her warmly as he headed out. She kept a suspicious stare fixed on Crowley as he swaggered past, though if he noticed it, he ignored it. Even as they walked down the hall, he kept talking to Fell, leaning closer, bothering him... Wilson crossed his arms, setting his jaw.

"Some people just don't know when to take no for an answer, do they?" he said.

Several weeks passed by. Wilson and Carlton managed to track down the thieves from Soho, and their division was saved from the embarrassment of a break-in so close to home. Work came slow after that, which was always good news for a police precinct, and they were given a rare chance to actually take a lunch break with no paperwork, no reading and no work-talk over food. They'd decided to visit a cafe in Soho, and had just finished eating. Strolling down the road back toward their car, Wilson nudged Carlton's arm.

"Hey, look," he said, nodding at a shop on the corner. "AZ Fell's... You don't think that it belongs to the same Mr Fell we interviewed after those break-ins, do you?"

She paused, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Could be," she said. "He said he sold books. The car outside looks antique, too."

He squinted at it. "Uh, yeah, what is that? A Rolls Royce?"

"A Bentley," she said, glaring at him for such a rookie mistake. She shook her head. "You're worse than my Clara. She doesn't know anything about cars, either."

"Hey, Fell didn't seem like much of a car guy either," he said with a shrug. "Maybe it's his husband's?"

"Two antique collectors getting together?" she mused, wondering about this mystery husband, and picturing a man similar to Mr Fell: a classic ageing elbow-patch professor type, with big horn-rimmed glasses and a dorky smile. "That's sweet. Shall we pop in, say hello?"

Deciding that yes, that would be nice, they crossed the road. There was no bell over the door, strangely, and the shop front was empty. Carlton glanced around at the tall, imposing shelves. You couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction, blocked by books and dust. Radio Ga Ga was playing from somewhere in the back, the faint music drifting through the air alongside the odd mouldy smell. Wilson thought about calling out for someone, but it felt wrong somehow, to disturb the silence. They looked at one another, bemused. The sign had definitely said open. 

Carlton ran her fingers along the spines of the books, her footfalls quiet as she paced the length of the bookshelf. Wilson followed close behind, glancing around with disinterest. She stepped into the next aisle, and her jaw dropped.

Mr Fell was pressed up against a bookshelf by his lapels, his eyes tight shut and locked in a fierce kiss... with no other than Crowley. 

"Mr Fell!" Wilson cried, breaking Carlton's silent shock. 

His eyes snapped open. Crowley pulled back, wiping his mouth and frowning. Aziraphale shoved him away abruptly, straightnening himself up and blushing furiously. "Oh good lord," he cried, tugging his clothes straight again, struggling to make eye contact. "I am so terribly sorry, I - I rather - didn't think - "

"Oops," Crowley said, the edge of his mouth turned up as he lounged back against the other bookshelf. "Caught red-handed, eh, angel?"

Carlton's heart sunk. She had been trying to convince herself that Crowley had forced himself upon Mr Fell, but that obviously hadn't been the case from the get-go. Fell's hands had been tangled in his hair, leaning into him, pulling him closer, encouraging him... Crowley's mischievous comment just confirmed her suspicions. Mr Fell was having an affair. With a pulse of disgust, she realised that it had probably all started in her precinct, right beside that coffee machine. Looks like Crowley finally got his way after all...

"Behave, dear," Aziraphale scolded him, turning back to the two detectives and trying to claw back his dignity. "I am so sorry about this..."

"Don't be," Carlton said coldly, casting a judgemental eye over them both. "It's none of our business. We just thought we'd say hello, since we were in the neighbourhood."

"We interviewed you last month, after the break-ins," Wilson clarified, crossing his arms. He didn't want to be here anymore.

"We remember," Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded in agreement. "Yes, of course, jolly good that you caught them both, the fiends!" he said, clapping his hands together overenthusiastically. "Could I tempt you to a cup of tea? Biscuits?"

Carlton supposed it would be rude to just turn and leave, and she had some time left in her break. "Why not?" she said, smiling strainedly. She gave Crowley a sideways glance. "Will you be staying, too?"

His brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't I?" he said, brushing past her toward the back room. 

They settled on a sofa in the back, while Aziraphale laid out a tea set. Everything was just so; the tea was the perfect temperature, brewed to taste, with sugar and milk on offer. He set out his best biscuits, which he didn't often do for human guests. He felt he had to make it up to them. Being found in such a compromising position, it was nothing less than mortifying for him...

"There," he said, settling down in his armchair. The blush was just starting to fade, finally. Crowley perched on the armrest. "I am glad you've paid a visit. It's always nice to have company."

"We can't stay long. We're still on duty," Wilson said sourly, sipping his tea. He avoided looking at the two men. 

"Well that's a pity," he said, picking up on the tension in the room, a little bemused by it.

"Matter of opinion," Crowley drawled. Aziraphale batted him lightly on the leg, but smiled. His sarcastic comments could be amusing, sometimes.

"Did you ever buy that nail polish, Mr Fell?" Carlton asked, tilting her head. She couldn't resist hinting at the fact that she knew he was married. Mr Fell had gone beyond an illicit affair, surely, allowing his mistress (is that the right word, she wondered, if it's a man?) to hang around while he served tea. He must be pretty confident that his husband wouldn't hear; that, or he didn't care. 

He beamed. It was quite the unexpected response. She thought he'd at least have the grace to look sheepish. "Oh, yes," he said, looking up at Crowley. "You're wearing it now, aren't you, dear?"

Crowley hummed, holding out his hand. Carlton's jaw slackened. His fingernails were painted dark red, in a familiar shade. "You're his husband?" she blurted out without thinking.

Crowley scowled. "Of course I'm his husband, what kind of a stupid question is that?" he scoffed. "What else am I going to be, his - Oh."

He cut himself off. A smile, amused and almost disbelieving, began to creep onto his face. Aziraphale looked between them, bemused, even looking to Wilson for help. The Detective Sergeant looked just as sheepish.

"You thought he was cheating on his husband, didn't you?" Crowley said mockingly, leaning forward on his knees. "With me."

Aziraphale scoffed. "Oh, Crowley, I don't think that's what they thought at all," he said, shaking his head. He then took notice of their awkward expressions. His mouth dropped open. "No. Surely not, I - I thought it was quite obvious!"

"Well, what do you expect people are going to think, when you're embarrassed to even hold my hand in public?" the demon pointed out, gesturing at the detectives. They shuffled uncomfortably. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. Carlton felt the urge to pretend her phone was ringing.

"I'm not embarrassed! I'm just... old-fashioned," he said defensively, sipping his tea. He looked at the two humans over the rim of his teacup. "Is that truly the impression you got? That it was - adultery?"

Wilson cringed. "Weeeeell," he said, looking anywhere but at Mr Fell's kicked-puppy expression. "Kinda."

"You look like polar opposites," Carlton cut in, by way of an excuse. "How were we supposed to know?"

"Don't judge books by their... uh. What's the word, angel?" Crowley said, snapping his fingers and gesturing vaguely.

"Covers, dear."

"COVERS!" he cried victoriously. "That's the one."

Carlton looked at the two of them again. The way Crowley had fallen back so easily on Aziraphale, the familiarity between them, the relaxed air... They trusted one another. She suddenly got the sense that they had been together for a long time. In a different context, the interactions by the coffee machine looked very different. Mr Fell wasn't ashamed of his husband; he was "old-fashioned". As a gay man of his age, he must still remember when homosexuality was a criminal offence. Carlton remembered it, too. A wave of guilt rushed over her. He was still recovering from the scars of discrimination in years gone by, just like her. She sighed, running a hand through her greying hair.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured. She looked up, smiling at the two of them. "You make a lovely couple."

Aziraphale beamed and, in an uncharacteristically open display of affection, took Crowley's hand in his own. The demon's eyebrows shot up, before his expression melted into a soft, unguarded sort of love. Carlton smiled. She was a cynic at heart, but maybe, just maybe... there might still be some good left in London.


End file.
